


Every Time You Run

by vividder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addicted!Sherlock, Angst, Concerns the past, Drug Use, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Manafest, Non-Chronological, Not Beta Read, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 21:49:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8344108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vividder/pseuds/vividder
Summary: A songfic concerning past and present drug use.  Very angsty.Lyrics from Every Time You Run by Manafest ft. Trevor McNevan.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I originally wrote this in eighth grade. I decided to revise and post it anyway. Not sure if this was wise, but enjoy.  
> Edit: Posted wrong chapter. Fixed it.

**Present Day**

The notes floated through the window of the flat.  Despite the fact that the radio was mildly annoying, the man did not bother to shut the window.  He hadn’t quite heard the words, but the sound alone was foreign enough to make him pause.

 

A man in a taxi is coming back from a trip to visit a friend.  It had been a bit of a drive, and the cabbie had left the radio on.  This man was anxious to get home.  Something had been up with his flatmate, and he was worried.  The music on the radio was not helping.  After all, the best he could hope for was that both the flat and his friend would be in one piece when he arrived.  A song on a radio would change nothing.  

 


	2. Chapter 1

_ Last night got a little crazy _

_ I don't remember, woke up spun with the pasties _

_ My friends say I was tweaked out, passed out on a dirty couch, still in the house _

 

**The Past**

Sherlock rested his head in his hands.  He should not have done what he had while John was away.  He'd known it was dangerous, but it had been so long and oh so very boring at the flat.  There had been no cases for two days, his experiments needed lots of time to develop, and there was nobody around he could bother.

He'd gone and contacted his dealer, getting just enough for a single hit.  The old thrill was still there as he'd pushed the plunger on the syringe and lay back on the couch, waiting a moment for the drug to take effect.  Just enough for a buzz, Sherlock had told himself as he waited.  Getting high or overdosing would not make John happy, and the ghosts of addictions past might be coming back to haunt him.  Having a flatmate who was a doctor was certainly inconvenient at times.

He felt it within a minute, the floating sensation and detachment as the drug coursed through his body.  Such a pleasant sensation from such a dangerous thing.  Why did something so nice have to be so harmful?  He thought it would be wonderful if he could stay like that all the time.  Sherlock's thoughts were like water flowing lazily down a stream in a tranquil forest.  He felt peace and a sense of slightly muddled calm.

What a nice change it had been, from the usually racing, painfully clear thoughts and connections his brain was always giving him.  Like a solid sea of glass.  No, no that didn't make any sense.  Did it matter?  The wallpaper was shifting in the edge of his vision.  Infernal thing.  He could change it one day, but Mrs. Hudson might get mad.  She always got mad when Sherlock shot the wall.  They were little holes, easily fixed, but they hadn't hurt anything.  Why did it matter?  Why did anything matter?  It was so nice to just float here like this.

Sherlock allowed the river to carry him off.

John would be mad.

He hadn't known how long he'd just stayed there in a haze.  Didn't know when John was coming home.  Not knowing was nice for once.  His phone said it had been nearly six hours.

 

_ It kinda scares me _

_ I don't know _

_ Am I outta control? _

_ Always waking up still in my clothes. _

 

Sherlock remembered the last time John had found him after he had used.  He'd taken enough to make him high while John was on a date.  Little did his friend know, the girl had already had a boyfriend and was dared to see if she could cheat on him.  She did it, and Sherlock let John go on two dates with her before he told him what she was really doing.  

John had wanted to go break up with her, but she stood him up.  

John figured the relationship was as good as over after waiting 10 minutes for her and heading home.  He'd gone and taken a cab back to Baker Street, only to find his flatmate crawling about the ground, looking for who knows what (Sherlock could not tell him at the time and later admitted he did not remember much of what had really happened).  

Sherlock didn't remember John coming into the flat after shooting up, but he remembered a hand on his shoulder, dragging him away from whatever it was he'd been doing.  Why was he on the floor anyway?  He'd forgotten, but it didn't matter in the moment.  Something told him John being back now was bad.  Very bad.  The syringe was still on the coffee table - stupid.  Stupid!

The second thing John had seen was the syringe on the table.  It lay behind a medical textbook Sherlock had been reading for an experiment, and John might have dismissed it altogether if Sherlock hadn't glanced up to see it, and tried to break his grip.  Thankfully for John, the other man was clumsy and sluggish from the drug, and wouldn't be able to easily break his grip.  There would be hell to pay once his flatmate was lucid enough to explain himself.

John pulled Sherlock onto the couch and sat him down, telling him to stay put.  He ran to his bedroom to get the medical kit he kept in the flat.  It had gotten used (or stolen from) more than John had expected.  Just one of the perks of having Sherlock Holmes as a flatmate.  

John grabbed the large black bag ( and hurried down the stairs into the living room to begin examining his friend.

Sherlock didn't know how he got on the couch, but that was okay.  It was more comfortable there anyway.  Then he saw John coming into the room with the bag.  Not good.  Very bad.  If John figured out what he'd been doing, John would leave.  Nobody wants an addict as a flatmate.  He could be arrested.  If Lestrade found out, there would be no more cases.  

John was saying something, but that wasn't important.  He must not figure it out!  Sherlock flinched away as John reached out to touch him.  He suspected something!  Sherlock cursed the drugs, for every wonderful thing about them, there was always the fact that they made his transport slow and unwieldy. 

John sighed.  Sherlock was intentionally being difficult.  He'd left marks trying to get him to stay still enough to take a pulse in his wrist.  And even though he was slow and messy in his dodges, John needed him to stop shaking his head so he could take a temperature.  An angry hand forcefully caught his chest, and John huffed out a breath.  Sherlock was becoming aggressive - John couldn't figure out if it was because he was trying to hide his addiction or because of the poison.  It was probably both.  He cursed as Sherlock used the second of surprise to sit up from the position John had forced him into and stand.

Then the idiot took a step and tripped on something, hitting his head on the arm of a chair.  He lay still, and John completed the examination, but he wasn’t unconscious.  He probably didn’t even have a concussion.  He'd stay on the floor for his stupidity that night, though, and if he complained at all, so God help him.


	3. Chapter 2

_ I thought of a song my mom used to sing in church _

_ But it's been so long I can't remember the words. _

 

Sherlock shifted in his delirium.  He had thought he’d heard footsteps.  Who could be here?  It was probably nothing.  Maybe another squatter.  No one sane or sober would be in this area at this time of night in the winter.

_ John? _ , something in him dared propose.

Probably just another hallucination, he decided, brushing the thought away.  He shouldn't have hoped.  Hope never does any good.

 

_ Every time you run _

_ Every time you hide _

 

John saw movement in a corner of the darkened building, and swept the torch over it.  A dark-haired man was lying there on his side, loosely wrapped in a shred of a blanket.  Sherlock wasn’t moving, and his skin was as pale as alabaster.  John felt something inside him catch at the possibility Sherlock might have died here, alone.  He walked over cautiously, and something inside of him released when he saw the slight rise and of Sherlock's torso.

He was alive.

John covered the next few paces at a run, and kneeled at his friend's side.  He laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and got no reaction.  But the state of the coat was just as worrying as the state of the man inside.

It was wet, and freezing cold.  The holes vandals had made in the walls and roof didn’t offer real protection from the elements.

John pulled out his phone and quickly looked at the weather in the pull-down menu.  It had sleeted here for about three hours in the afternoon.  He cursed.  The idiot couldn't even find proper shelter.  It was quite clear he had hypothermia.  John removed the wet coat and wrapped Sherlock in his dry one, doing the same with his gloves and socks.  He would have to get out of the cold soon now, but he wasn’t going to leave Sherlock by himself.

Sherlock was heavy (why did he have to be so tall?) and awkward to carry, but John had seen the all-night convenience store down the street and managed to get him there as fast as he could.  A few people and a cashier were inside, and John only sighed at the expression of shock on their faces before going into doctor mode.  He lay Sherlock on the carpet, and started at what he saw.

Even John's too-small coat hung limply off of his frame.  The detective's lips were a frightening shade of blue and the rest of his skin was closer to grey than its original tone.  He looked like he had been kissed by Death himself.  A single touch proved John's hypothesis.  He was as cold as the ice outside.  His breathing was as frail as the icicles hanging from the roof.

How had he made it this long?

Quickly, as per John's request, an ambulance was called and coats and blankets were laid over the man to help conserve what body heat he had left.  

Then John leaned over the still form and breathed into it.  Rescue breathing.  Sherlock did not respond.


	4. Chapter 3

_ Every time it hurts _

_ Every time you cry _

 

At the hospital, John could only sit in shock and stare.  They'd let him come with Sherlock after John mentioned that Sherlock might have taken something, and showed the EMTs two syringes he'd found in the pocket of the Belstaff.

Once Sherlock was in the ambulance, they'd hooked him up to monitors and took his temperature.  All of his measurements were frighteningly low.  They'd intubated him before leaving the parking lot because he was so weak.  Then they discarded his wet clothes and wrapped him in blankets.

John was glad Sherlock was unconscious.  If he knew what was happening, there would be trouble.  John was sure his flatmate would throw a fit if he knew that all he was wearing were shock blankets.  And even though John understood exactly what was happening, he felt oddly detached, like it didn't matter all that much.

He supposed he needed a shock blanket too.

John thought about this as he watched Sherlock, who could barely be seen under a pile of blankets, tubes snaking out of and away from him.

How had his friend spent the days away?  What had he done?  Would he survive?  

_ Every time you run away _

_ Every time you hide your face _

_ And it feels so far away _

_ I'm right here _

_ With you _

 

John had begun to nod off in the hard plastic chair when a rustling noise woke him up.  He looked up, blearily, expecting to see one of the nurses telling him to let Sherlock be.  

It was Sherlock himself, jerking around, confused.

 

Sherlock woke up under a pile of blankets.  He had no idea where he was, just that he felt so cold.

He shouldn't be this cold.

Sherlock tried to sit up and see where he was - certainly not his bolt-hole, there was lights and a roof - but his body felt like lead.  Something was in his throat and he couldn't breathe.  He began to panic, forcing himself to cough, and suddenly John was at his side, pressing a call button and telling him to calm down.

Why was John here?

John was supposed to be back at Baker Street, packing up his things and not caring that Sherlock was dead.

Or not dead, as he was very much alive.

A nurse had thankfully arrived.  She removed the breathing tube and replaced it with a mask.  She said that it probably wouldn't be the best idea, but he'd hurt himself otherwise.  Sherlock coughed violently during and after the removal, making John look concerned.

Why did John still look concerned?  He coughed again, harder, and felt quite ill.

 

John looked at Sherlock, watching as the tube was removed to be replaced with a mask.  He was still very pale, and the coughing was concerning.  The nurse said she would be back with a doctor, and walked quickly out.

Sherlock was making wheezing noises in between the painful-sounding coughs now, and John moved closer.  He grabbed the bucket from a table, and moved the mask away so Sherlock could spit.

Sherlock was quite violently ill instead, dry heaving and bringing up bile as the doctor walked in.  John supported him, and gently lowered him back down on the bed when he was done, replacing the mask.  Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.  His face was paler than it was before, and it looked like he was just going to pass out again.

It was chilling, and all John wanted was to tell him not to close his eyes, to stay with him.


	5. Chapter 4

_ I keep sleeping in, don't want to wake up _

_ I keep hearing from the landlord, pay up _

 

Mrs. Hudson was concerned.

John hadn’t come home that morning, and there hadn’t been any calls.  She knew that her boys probably just needed some time alone to make up, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.  The past few days, John had gone out for long hours and Sherlock hadn’t turned up at all.  

John, the wonderful man, had done his best not to make her worry, she could see that.  Mrs. Hudson was thankful for that, actually.  She knew he would be there when Sherlock needed him. That still didn’t mean anything was right at all.

She waited for another few hours and contemplated calling them.  John had left rather abruptly in the middle of the night and had not come back, not even to get clothing or anything.  Sherlock had been gone for a week.  Lestrade had even come around to see if the detective was in, but had been quite alarmed when Mrs. Hudson couldn’t tell him where they were.  Apparently there was a case that needed solving, and Sherlock had not answered his phone.  

How very unusual.  Sherlock always had his phone with him.  Except he hadn’t had it when he and John had had that horrible fight.  That was what she told Lestrade, that Sherlock and John had a row and Sherlock ran off and she hadn’t seen him since.

Lestrade shook off his concern rather quickly, or at least, he appeared to.  Those two had some sort of history, Mrs. Hudson knew.  Likely something to do with his drug habits.  It would be all right, though.  It always was.  

She should still call, though, so she picked up her phone and dialed John’s cell.  He answered on the first ring, greeting her and sounding rather tired.

She asked how he was, and John answered fine.  It didn’t sound like he was all that fine, though, and there was the sound of coughing from behind him.  Mrs. Hudson became even more concerned.

She then asked after Sherlock.

John had paused before answering, like he wasn't sure what to say.  Finally, with a heaviness in his voice she had only heard a few times before, John informed her that Sherlock was in the hospital.

Oh no.  

According to the information John was giving Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock had pretty much lay out in the cold for a week straight with barely any clothes, food, or water.  He was nearly dead when the miscreant had called John (Mrs. Hudson silently thanked God for that), and was severely hypothermic.  The horrible cough that interrupted the line every few minutes was Sherlock.

John had tried to comfort her, but Mrs. Hudson was having none of it.  One of her boys was in the hospital and she would be there for him with a plate of biscuits that evening, no matter what John said.  He might have been a soldier and a doctor, but he couldn't handle everything.  Mrs. Hudson knew this, even if Sherlock and John couldn't see it.

Boys.

And with a heavy sigh, she set on into the kitchen to prepare something for her two most wonderful tenants.

 

John hadn't expected the call at all.  He figured it would be Lestrade asking why Sherlock hadn't answered his phone in a week (honestly, it had died on the third day and John had left it unplugged until he could buy a phone charger), but the caller ID said that it was Mrs. Hudson.  

John walked out of the room to take the call, even though he figured Sherlock probably wasn't awake enough to hear them.  You never knew what Sherlock was picking up anyway, even with the sedatives.  Without them, his own coughing would keep him awake for hours until he simply passed out from exhaustion.  It pained John to see his friend like this, but he couldn't leave Sherlock alone.

His friend probably had some sort of abandonment issue, John figured.  According to the nurses, every time John left, Sherlock would become agitated and ask for him, disoriented, until John returned or Sherlock was given another dose of sedatives and sent back to sleep.  His friend was an idiot, but he was loyal and right now - right now he needed John's help.

 

_ Hide my face in the pillows to the sun sets _

 

Sherlock woke again.  He wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep, but he felt slightly better, which wasn't saying much, considering he still felt absolutely terrible.

John stood in the doorway, turned away from him, talking on the phone.  Someone was concerned about him.  Mrs. Hudson.  John was telling her something - don't worry?  John was worried, though.  Mrs. Hudson was probably going to disregard anything John told her anyway and come visit and worry about him anyway.  John probably figured that out anyway, as he hung up and turned back into the room.  Sherlock knew he was worried.  His expression was weary, and his eyes were cast in a shadow of exhaustion.

Why did Sherlock have to be such a burden?  John had already done so much for him.  Why was he still here?  John should leave.  The girlfriend he had now - what was her name?  He'd deleted it.  Well, she was nice.  One of the few who hadn't cheated on him so far.  John could go and settle down with her.  Why was he still here?

Sherlock coughed again.  While he was out, the mask had been replaced with a cannula, wrapped behind his ears and taped down.  Probably better, since the doctors figured he'd managed to catch pneumonia and probably something else while he was squatting.  Just his luck, anyway.

John came to his side as he struggled to get the air and his body spasmed.  He made sure Sherlock would be all right, telling him that everything would be all right.

Sherlock hadn't realized he'd responded, but John replied to his inquiry about whether why he was here by saying that he was Sherlock's friend and insulting him for about a minute straight because he was such an idiot.  

Ah well.  Sherlock felt dead anyway.  John would be okay, he assumed, just so long as he pulled out of this one all right.

 

Mrs. Hudson came around that evening, meeting John outside Sherlock's room with a tin of biscuits.  She was very concerned, and the pained smile on John's face when he saw her didn't make her worry any less.

She greeted him with a hug, which he returned warmly.  Mrs. Hudson then asked if Sherlock was all right with her visiting.

John replied that Sherlock was asleep right now, which was a very good thing.  He hadn't eaten much, and was on tube nutrition for a bit since he'd been so underweight when he arrived.

But Mrs. Hudson's cookies might convince him to try a bit.  At hearing that, a warmth spread through her.  After all, Sherlock had never been good at remembering to eat, but whenever she brought biscuits, he'd have a few.  It was her way of making sure he didn't waste away,even though Mrs. Hudson wasn't his housekeeper.

She walked in the room, and even though she'd known Sherlock wasn't well, she didn't expect to see him so pale.  His skin looked almost translucent.  It was chilling, and she just had to watch his chest move up and down for a moment before she could move to one of the plastic chairs next to the bed.

John stood behind her and they stayed like that for awhile, watching, as he slept


	6. Chapter 5

_ Hung over and I haven't seen a paycheck _

_ I took a job downtown at the factory _

_ I was hired and fired with no salary _

 

Sherlock was thinking about the one time he had tried to get a job.

It had not gone well.

It was just after he’d graduated high school - his parents had insisted that he finish school at the same rate as the other children.  It was absolute torture for someone who could see so much more than the normal people.  So it was no wonder it had been around that time that he’d discovered the drug-dealing underworld of his school.  Sherlock was clearly aware of what the drug would do to him, he just didn’t care.  It was that tedious, and he wanted an out.

After a new months of this, Sherlock needed money to pay off a debt to his supplier,  Never mind that he’d gathered considerable blackmail material.  But someone like that had power in certain circles.  Circles that could make you live through hell if you ticked them off.  So Sherlock figured he could pay it off, and everything would be cool.

So he applied for a low level job, something any high school kid could do.

He’d showed up on time for the interview, and Sherlock had used his skills of deduction to give answers that he knew would please the interviewer.

Essentially, he lied through his teeth for the whole thing.

Then they sent him to be a receptionist and deal with people.  Everyone he encountered was annoying and bratty, and Sherlock made sure that they knew he thought they were that way in no uncertain terms.  Such tiny minds were so irritating, also, he hadn’t been able to get his hands on anything stronger than ibuprofen for a few weeks.  Debts were difficult.

It was quite possible withdrawal was making him worse than he normally was, he thought wryly, his lips quirking up at the thought.

They’d given him a stern talking-to at the end of his first shift, and he’d insulted them all.  Sherlock was paid and promptly fired.

Getting away from that place had made him happier than anything else had over those few weeks.  Never mind he hadn’t spent more than 10 hours in there.


	7. Chapter 6

_ I keep running from responsibility _

_ It seems impossible, the pressure is killing me _

 

John (probably with Mycroft’s help), had managed to get Sherlock released from the hospital without any visits from the addiction counseling or psych people.  He was, however, not to go running around.  Sherlock was rather irritated by this decree, but reluctantly obeyed.

 

John knew that, even though Sherlock was out of the hospital, he was still sulking.  It figured.  At least now, it was because even though Lestrade had a case for him, John was going to keep the detective cooped up in the flat.

It didn’t matter that the flat was boring and cases were exciting.  John didn’t think Sherlock realized how sick he still was.  Yeah, he didn’t gasp for breath or vomit after a vicious bout of coughing now, but his face would get deathly pale and he would have to compose himself. Yeah, Sherlock was fooling everyone.  Not.

John followed Sherlock upstairs, where he sat down and turned on the telly.  Sherlock watched a bit of daytime TV, making deductions about the hosts and their guests, and calling them all out for being idiots.  It was clear he was exhausted, but would never admit it.

John had gotten out his laptop and begun to surf the internet.  The hit counter on his blog was still stuck (of course), and he’d gotten emails from everyone and their brother, it seemed.  Everything sounded relatively normal from the other room, so John let it be.

Until the telly was turned off and Sherlock marched into the room and announced he was bored.  He stomped around the flat, making a grand amount of noise, and ensuring anyone in the building could feel his annoyance about being kept inside because he was sick.

John mentally reviewed the location of the gun and considered retrieving it.  Although, if this kept up for much longer, he just might use it himself.

 

Sherlock was bored out of his mind.  Why couldn’t John figure it out?  Keeping him here would do no good, and the case...the case would be suitably exciting.  He went and looked for his phone, finding it underneath a stack of paper in the other room.  Of course it was dead, so he asked John for his phone.  Well, not asked so much as took from where his flatmate normally put it when coming inside.  The passcode John used (presumably to protect it from such intrusions) was easy to crack.  Why did the man even try anymore?

Sherlock had gotten through everything - padlocks John put on things he didn’t want Sherlock going through, passwords on accounts John didn’t want him touching, his computer.  It was pointless when your flatmate was a deductive genius.  He texted Lestrade.

Lestrade did not text back for nearly two hours.

How dull.

 

_ I know I need to man up and sit down _

_ Stand up and get outta this crowd _

 

Sherlock began to think through his old cases.  His first cases had been finding lost dogs, other things, etc.  Of course, he cracked them in seconds, except for the dogs, which he never bothered to actually find.  He blackmailed others into doing that.

Sherlock remembered the first time someone had given him a real case.  He should have thought about it before taking it, but an actual person had disappeared!  And he was being asked to find them.  Sherlock had seen the kid around the campus of the school, but he was a senior and the missing kid was still in seventh year.

The kid, Austin, had asked him to find his girlfriend.  After thinking for a few seconds, Sherlock figured out that he had some sort of plan, and the girl wasn’t actually missing.  This was proved a second later when she actually came around the corner and waved to Austin.

Austin had cursed vehemently, and given Sherlock a meeting place and a time he would be there for payment.  He’d then smiled wickedly.

He was planning something.

So on the day of the meeting, Sherlock made sure to tuck one of the knives from the kitchen in his waistband.

Someone had pushed him when he came into the old house, and Sherlock clearly felt the needle slide under his skin and saw Austin smiling up at him.  He called him a freak.

Then everything went black.

When Sherlock woke, Mycroft had been leaning over him.  Mycroft, his idiot older brother.  Sherlock didn’t understand why he was on the ground at all.  Why was Mycroft’s face wet?  Was he...crying?  Oh, he hurt so much.  Mycroft never cried.

Conclusion: Sherlock was hurt, and Mycroft felt responsible.

Mycroft hadn’t done anything.  That was Austin.

So he didn't feel responsible.  He felt...worried?  How un-Mycroftlike of him.  He never worried about anyone or anything, in fact, Sherlock expected him to begin gloating about how Sherlock's interest in danger had gotten him into this mess.

But as he watched, Mycroft's eyes had an expression of fear and pain in them, like one might expect from a normal brother.  Why was Mycroft scared?

Mycroft began to speak.  His voice trembled, apparently Sherlock had been found on the library steps unconscious.  Austin was, Mycroft informed him with a large amount of scorn in his voice, a "friend" of his that had kidnapped Sherlock for a "joke".  He knew who had done it from deducing and asking passersby.  And nobody, Mycroft had promised, messed with his little brother.

Only, that promise had been broken years before it was ever acted on.  

And Sherlock could only wonder what else was coming for him.


	8. Chapter 7

_ I keep running from responsibility _

_ It seems impossible, the pressure is killing me _

 

John (probably with Mycroft’s help), had managed to get Sherlock released from the hospital without any visits from the addiction counseling or psych people.  He was, however, not to go running around.  Sherlock was rather irritated by this decree, but reluctantly obeyed.

 

John knew that, even though Sherlock was out of the hospital, he was still sulking.  It figured.  At least now, it was because even though Lestrade had a case for him, John was going to keep the detective cooped up in the flat.

It didn’t matter that the flat was boring and cases were exciting.  John didn’t think Sherlock realized how sick he still was.  Yeah, he didn’t gasp for breath or vomit after a vicious bout of coughing now, but his face would get deathly pale and he would have to compose himself. Yeah, Sherlock was fooling everyone.  Not.

John followed Sherlock upstairs, where he sat down and turned on the telly.  Sherlock watched a bit of daytime TV, making deductions about the hosts and their guests, and calling them all out for being idiots.  It was clear he was exhausted, but would never admit it.

John had gotten out his laptop and begun to surf the internet.  The hit counter on his blog was still stuck (of course), and he’d gotten emails from everyone and their brother, it seemed.  Everything sounded relatively normal from the other room, so John let it be.

Until the telly was turned off and Sherlock marched into the room and announced he was bored.  He stomped around the flat, making a grand amount of noise, and ensuring anyone in the building could feel his annoyance about being kept inside because he was sick.

John mentally reviewed the location of the gun and considered retrieving it.  Although, if this kept up for much longer, he just might use it himself.

 

Sherlock was bored out of his mind.  Why couldn’t John figure it out?  Keeping him here would do no good, and the case...the case would be suitably exciting.  He went and looked for his phone, finding it underneath a stack of paper in the other room.  Of course it was dead, so he asked John for his phone.  Well, not asked so much as took from where his flatmate normally put it when coming inside.  The passcode John used (presumably to protect it from such intrusions) was easy to crack.  Why did the man even try anymore?

Sherlock had gotten through everything - padlocks John put on things he didn’t want Sherlock going through, passwords on accounts John didn’t want him touching, his computer.  It was pointless when your flatmate was a deductive genius.  He texted Lestrade.

Lestrade did not text back for nearly two hours.

How dull.

 

_ I know I need to man up and sit down _

_ Stand up and get outta this crowd _

 

Sherlock began to think through his old cases.  His first cases had been finding lost dogs, other things, etc.  Of course, he cracked them in seconds, except for the dogs, which he never bothered to actually find.  He blackmailed others into doing that.

Sherlock remembered the first time someone had given him a real case.  He should have thought about it before taking it, but an actual person had disappeared!  And he was being asked to find them.  Sherlock had seen the kid around the campus of the school, but he was a senior and the missing kid was still in seventh year.

The kid, Austin, had asked him to find his girlfriend.  After thinking for a few seconds, Sherlock figured out that he had some sort of plan, and the girl wasn’t actually missing.  This was proved a second later when she actually came around the corner and waved to Austin.

Austin had cursed vehemently, and given Sherlock a meeting place and a time he would be there for payment.  He’d then smiled wickedly.

He was planning something.

So on the day of the meeting, Sherlock made sure to tuck one of the knives from the kitchen in his waistband.

Someone had pushed him when he came into the old house, and Sherlock clearly felt the needle slide under his skin and saw Austin smiling up at him.  He called him a freak.

Then everything went black.

When Sherlock woke, Mycroft had been leaning over him.  Mycroft, his idiot older brother.  Sherlock didn’t understand why he was on the ground at all.  Why was Mycroft’s face wet?  Was he...crying?  Oh, he hurt so much.  Mycroft never cried.

Conclusion: Sherlock was hurt, and Mycroft felt responsible.

Mycroft hadn’t done anything.  That was Austin.

So he didn't feel responsible.  He felt...worried?  How un-Mycroftlike of him.  He never worried about anyone or anything, in fact, Sherlock expected him to begin gloating about how Sherlock's interest in danger had gotten him into this mess.

But as he watched, Mycroft's eyes had an expression of fear and pain in them, like one might expect from a normal brother.  Why was Mycroft scared?

Mycroft began to speak.  His voice trembled, apparently Sherlock had been found on the library steps unconscious.  Austin was, Mycroft informed him with a large amount of scorn in his voice, a "friend" of his that had kidnapped Sherlock for a "joke".  He knew who had done it from deducing and asking passersby.  And nobody, Mycroft had promised, messed with his little brother.

Only, that promise had been broken years before it was ever acted on.  

And Sherlock could only wonder what else was coming for him.


	9. Chapter 8

_ And I know I'm not ready to die _

_ But I've sure thought about the meaning of life _

_ Cause I can't seem to find a purpose for me _

_ It's just the choices that I fail to believe _

 

**Present Day**

Sherlock stood from the couch, determined.  He'd wanted the escape, the danger, the peace.  He'd wanted all of that when it began.  But now he could see the futility to it all.

Sentiment - who cared about sentiment?

But Sherlock could see that John had it, at least a little, for him.  Probably Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson as well.  He understood, in that moment, thinking over those memories, that his life meant something.

Maybe not to himself, but to those people.

And thinking about what they'd done for him, he grabbed the syringe and began a search.

 

_ I gotta get up, get up, get up get up _

_ Get up, get up, get up, get up _

 

John hadn't gotten a text from Sherlock in nearly a day.  He was getting anxious.

 

_ I hear two voices in my mind _

_ One's the devil, one's Jesus, I can't feel it, can you help me find the pieces? _

 

The phone was ringing, but Sherlock ignored it.

 

John cursed as his call went to the arrogant man's voice mail.

 

Sherlock knew what was going on, what choice he could make.  The syringe and the assembled drugs in front of him - he had many choices he could make.

He could shoot them all at once.

He could take some.

He could hide them again.

It would be so easy to end it all right now.

So easy to keep destroying himself.

And in the process, continue destroying John and everyone else who considered themselves his friends.

Could he really make this choice?  Was it his place decide if he lived or died?

Or was that best left to the cruel mistress of fate?

 

_ Like an angel on my shoulder, you hold the joy of the Lord, raising up a soldier _

_ You gave me the song my mom used to sing in church _

_ I promised not to quit and I remembered the words _

 

John had seen Sherlock at his darkest.  John had seen him when things were going well.  And in return, John knew Sherlock had seen him in his times of joy and sadness as well.  There was a life about the man, an air unlike anything he had seen.  Despite his claims that everything around him was dull or stupid, he really cared somewhere underneath.

John realized that Sherlock had come along, a friend when he had most needed one.  Sherlock had changed the way he looked at the world, and shouldered some of the weight he’d brought.  He was, in turn, useful to Sherlock, and useful wasn’t something that many people were to his flat mate.  

Sherlock had gone beyond that and called John his friend.  John was probably the only person Sherlock had ever bestowed the title upon.  It was, even if the git didn’t admit it, sentimental.

John had brought Sherlock back from the brink of death.

Sherlock had taken the veteran’s loneliness away.  And if John couldn’t get his friend to realize that he could help himself, that there was something to live for, it would be back.

 

Sherlock figured John thought he would be crazy if he came in now, and smiled wryly.

 

_ (I promised not to quit and I remembered the words) _

 

Sherlock made his choice, focusing firmly on all John has done for him.  No matter how much pain this may cause him, it would have hurt John more in the long run, and Sherlock couldn’t do that to his only friend.

 

_ Every time you run _

 

He stood

 

_ Every time you hide _

 

and walked to the back window.

 

_ Every time it hurts _

 

Sherlock looked, to make sure no one was in the alley

 

_ Everytime you cry _

 

and unlatched the window.

 

_ Every time you run away _

 

He paused for a second, firming his resolve.

 

_ Every time you hide your face _

 

He extended his hand.

 

_ And it feels so far away _

 

The powders were already starting fall like grains of sand in an hourglass.

 

_ I'm right here _

 

Sherlock took a cleansing breath, focusing on his friends again.

 

_ With you _

 

And began to relax his arm.

 

_ (I promised not to quit and I remembered the words) _

 

John saw the lights on in Baker street as the cab pulled up.

 

_ (I promised not to quit and I remembered the words) _

 

Sherlock opened his palm and watched the poison shatter and mix on the pavement below.

 

_ And it feels so far away _

 

He shut the window

 

_ I'm right here _

 

and proceeded to sit, with his back against the wall, just being idle for once.

 

_ With you _

 

John got out of the cab and walked up the steps to the flat.


End file.
